Letters from War
by eloquentelegance
Summary: This is a story of war. But it doesn't take place on the battlefield. It doesn't take place behind enemy lines. This story takes place, in a home. In a quiet suburban neighborhood.


**A/N: Emily = fem!England... Because someone had to be the mom...**

Gilbert Beilschmidt. Armed with a bag of letters and that silly ,little blue hat. He strolled casually down the sidewalk. Muttering darkly beneath his breath.

"Go get a job… Bla bla bla… You can't just lie on the couch all day… Bla bla bla… Well, you know what? Fuck you, Bruder! Fuck you!"

It was set firmly in his belief that Ludwig was to blame for his newfound occupation. A mailman. How much lamer could you get? Delivering letters and shit. Seriously? Plus… The bag was kinda chafing his shoulder. Just a bit. Of course not enough to hurt the Awesome Gilbert! He was invincible!

But really. It was starting to bother him. Sort of.

Messenger bags aside, Gilbert hated his new job. He had to walk block after block. All by himself! The occasional rabid dog notwithstanding. Not that he didn't like dogs. His bruder had three for god's sake. But after all the stupid mutts he's seen today. Yeah, he was starting to think dogs were not "man's best friend". In his honest opinion, chicks were better. (Cute, fluffy, and portable).

He didn't have a problem with being alone either. Psh! Being alone was no big deal.

Eyeing a happy couple strolling down the street. A beautiful woman with a flower barett and a stiff, aristocratic man with hands entwined together, loving smiles painted on tender expressions.

"She's too good for him." He huffed.

Ja, ja. Being alone was no big deal at all. It was actually a little cool.

"It's so much fun being alone!" Gilbert nodded.

"Really? I prefer solitude as well."

Gilbert looked wildly around, searching for the speaker.

"Oi! You prat! I'm over here!"

A young woman, if Gilbert had to guess, late twenties/early thirties.

She had long, blond hair tied into twin pigtails and squared-framed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She looked like the smart, bookish type. Certainly not Gilbert's type but hey, if she was offering!

"Excuse me? Hello?"

She waved her hand, trying in vain to catch his attention.

Gilbert smirked. "Yes, hi. I know I'm awesome. But baby, no need to trip over yourself. There's plenty of me to go around."

One eyebrow twitched. Woah! Check out the size of those suckers! They were huge! Now if only her breasts matched up.

"Pompous git!" She growled. "Look, alright. I have a letter."

She brandished a thick, brown envelope for emphasis.

"And I'm going to give it to you. Because you are the mailman and it is your job, correct?"

"Ooh, saucy. No problem. I like 'em fierce." Gilbert laughed, taking her letter nonetheless.

Glancing at the address, he gazed inquiringly at the woman. "The… Army Base?"

"Yes. You have a problem with that?"

"Why? You got a husband over there or something?"

Shit. She was taken.

"No…"

Oh! But wait!

"A son."

…what?

"You have a what now?"

"A son."

"Lady! Were you pregnant in high school or something? Cause, I mean, wow!"

A vein dangerously ticked in her forehead. "I'll have you know, I am thirty-nine years old. I had my child at the most appropriate of times."

Thirty-nine? No shit?

Gilbert's jaw was slack. Damn. She was older than him. With a figure like that? Shoot, now wonder she was married.

"Well, lady. You certainly don't look thirty-nine."

She smirked. "It's Ms. Kirkland-Jones to you."

"Ah…"

And then her expressioned softened. A gentle warmth radiating from her limpid, green eyes. There was a melancholic air affecting her mein. A proud yet sad smile.

"Please." She quietly whispered. "Get this to him safely."

And then she looked up. Her eyes locking with his. And Gilbert knew. Immediately. That whoever her son is. Was a goddamn lucky son of a gun.

"I'll make sure of it ma'am." He replied with a touch of respect so very uncharacteristic.

And then he pulled away. Tucking her letter in his breast pocket. Safe and sound.

He knew, without even looking back. That she was still watching him. And he knew that every single day, she'll be waiting for him. For the mail. Wearing that same, heartbreaking smile.

Praying. Praying. Praying.

And suddenly. Being a mailman wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

_Yo Mom!_

_How you doing? Me? Oh, I'm fine. Quit worrying. And don't pretend you aren't. Becaue we both know you are._

_Well, I'm fine. The weather's a little stuffy. Sure. And the training is hard core. Let me tell ya. There wasn't anything like this on the football team. I'm sweating like crazy over here._

_But it's all cool. Met some of the guys around here. They're awesome you know. We like to pal around a lot. But mostly we talk. About home._

_The guys miss their great "homecooked meals". But naw, not me. They said the food here tasted like crap. And I was all like, "Wait till you tasted my mom's." The food here is nothing compared to yours!_

_I'm kidding. I'm kidding. Your meals are slightly better. But only slightly._

_Now don't you be glaring holes into the paper, Ma. You might set my letter on fire and I worked damn hard at this. Okay, now I'm pretty sure you're rolling your eyes. But it's true! I've never been one for words. And since I know you can't strangle me over a letter, I'm going to confess. I hated Shakespeare. So, there ya go._

_But you know, Mom. We talk about home a lot here. Nobody wants to admit it. But we're homesick. We really are. _

_I miss you, Mom._

_There, I said it. And don't be crying, alright! Geez… Or I'll have to tease you endlessly if I find watermarks on the paper. You know I will._

_But seriously. I miss you, Mom._

_And I've been thinking. (A miracle, yeah, yeah.) But I've been thinking about Dad. I mean, the boys and I were talking and they all have these great stories about their Dads. Not that I don't. But really, the only thing that stands out in my memories. When Dad was around. Was you._

_You were so happy around him, y'know. You'd be smiling and stuff. Laughing. And I couldn't help thinking._

_That's what I'm here for._

_Now I know this is going to sound all mushy. But remember, I will tease you endlessly when I get back home. _

_Dad loved your smile. And I love it too. I love you, Mom. _

_And I want to protect you to the best of my abilities. Because… you're important to me. I mean you're my mom._

_So yeah. Don't cry, Mom. I didn't come here to make you cry okay?_

_And just so you know. You're son didn't turn into some sissy boy. The other guys were saying that too. About their moms. It comes with the whole camraderie thing._

_And so that's pretty much it. _

_I swear if you are crying…_

_I'll see when I get back._

_Love you,_

_Alfred F. Jones_

Emil couldn't help the smile that bloomed on her lips, hastily scrubbing the tears from her face. At the very least they didn't stain the paper.

Carefully, with the utmost of care, she folded the letter. Slipping it back into it's plain, brown envelope before tucking it safely in her carved, wooden box.

Alfred made her this box, in woodshop some several years ago.

And she couldn't help but marvel at how time simply _flew_.

It felt just like yesterday. He was learning how to crawl across the livingroom. Still wearing diapers.

But now…

The box was clumsily carved with her initials. Beneath three giant letters. M-O-M.

Pulling out a fresh piece of paper, pen in hand. Emily began to write.

_Honestly, you git._

_Can't you think of a more appropriate greeting than 'Yo Mom!'? First of all, 'yo' is not a word. Secondly, I will never forgive you for not liking Shakespeare. And thirdly! I taught you better than that, young man!_

_And my cooking is not awful! My scones are the best and you know it. Little prat. Tell your little 'posse' that your mother dearest has invited them for a Thanksgiving dinner. You'll be eating your words, literally._

_It's the same as ever here. The Vargas twins are old enough to wreak havoc in the nieghborhood. Just like you did. They learned how to ride bikes now. Without training wheels. It'll be pretty chaotic but you were worse._

_I've honestly lost count at how many times I had to apologize to the neighbors._

_"Oh, I'm sure he didn't mean it. Spray painting your front lawn orange was just an accident."_

_"He's an enthuiastic child. I'm sure he didn't mean to shatter your window with his baseball. Or his football. Or his soccer ball."_

_The list goes on._

_It's a wonder how they let such a troublesome tyke like you into the army. I honestly fear for the state of our military. Oh how the standards have fallen._

_I hope your commanders or whatever you call them treat you well enough. I mean, I know it's the army. But I still hope they treat you with some level of respect._

_And you better be eating. I don't care how awful the food is. And I'm sure mines is loads better. But you have to eat. If I get any wind that you're malnourished. Or starving. So help me, I will storm into your little Base and force feed you my steak and kidney pie. And you know I will._

_Honestly. You are so… Hard-headed. Stubborn. Just like your father. A right git that one. You should've seen the looks on our friends faces when we announced our engagement. Shocked expression across the board._

_But you know what. I'm not complaining. Your father was a good man._

_And you are my precious baby boy. _

_Don't make faces. And I know you are._

_But no matter what. You will always. Always be my precious, precious baby boy. My cherished son._

_You are good. And you're brave. I'm so proud of my dearest child._

_When the time comes. You'd make a wonderful father._

_Love,_

_Your Mother._

Emily was not a religious woman. She will never claim to be a Catholic or a Protestant or a Jew or a Muslim. She will not claim to be a part of any religion. And considers herself an atheist.

But that night, as she lay on her bed, staring mindlessly at the ceiling.

Her thoughts rushed to Alfred. Her Alfred.

War was a dangerous affair. People die.

And the very thought—

No. He couldn't. Not her baby boy!

Such thoughts tormented her. And before she realized it. She was kneeling beside the bed. Hands clasped together.

Praying.

"Please. If there's anyone out there. Anyone who can hear me. Grant me this one wish. I will never ask for anything ever again. Just grant me this."

She took a deep shuddering breath.

"Bring him home. Bring him home. Bring him home safe. Back into my arms. Please. I am on my knees begging you! Bring my son home."

* * *

The very next day, Gilbert came strolling down that same, suburban sidewalk.

His bag heavy with letters. His shoulders aching horribly, and his blistered feet stinging with each step.

But he smiled. Nodding ever so slightly as Ms. Kirkland-Jones came to view.

It was here. It was here with him. He saw it himself.

"Mail for a Ms. Emily Kirkland-Jones?"

"My full name's on the envelope?" She inquired. A strained quality to her voice.

Gilbert almost laughed. It was far too obvious. The woman was positively brimming with joy.

"Your boy has quite a handwriting."

The letter was tucked in his chest pocket. Close to his heart.

Fishing it out, he quietly handed it to Emily's outstretched palms. Her hands trembling. Barely able to grasp the envelope.

"Thank you." She whispered oh so softly. Gilbert barely heard it. "Thank you. Thank you so much."

"Just doing my job, ma'am." And he tipped his hat lightly. Going on his merry way.

With blistered feet. And aching shoulders. And a pound of mail strapped across his back. But there was a lightness about the man's step.

A cheery grin threatening to split his face as he heard the door of a house slam shut.

* * *

_You sneaky witch._

_You just want grandchildren, don't you? Well hey! Why don't I charm one of the locals around here. Bring her over. And we'll get this marriage deal up and running. _

_Don't tell me you want brats like the Vargas twins running around your house. I mean, think about it. If one of me is enough. Think two and it'd be absolutely impossible. And people say people are crazy to go into war. You're pretty loony yourself._

_And just for the record. Your Thanksgiving 'Feasts' are weapons of mass destruction and should be deployed in the field. Last year, I dropped the turkey. And it made a dent on the floor! Explain that!_

_I would never invite my friends over! _

_Oh, and I have to tell you of this sweet, new guy I met. And I mean sweet as in maple-syrup sweet. Honestly, I wonder what made him enlist. He looked like he could barely hurt a fly. _

_But you know the creepiest thing is… We look freakin' alike. Seriously! If I could send you a picture right now I would. But it's not exactly like we carry self-portraits in our pockets. Well, some of us do. But certainly not this guy._

_His name is Matthew Williams. He 's part Canadian. Used to live in that big ol' country before moving here. He said this was for college tuition or sumthin. _

_But I heard rumours. Like from the higher ups. That Matt is like this wicked machine with the fricken gun. Great aim apparently._

_You would never guess from looking at him._

_And would you relax! Of course I'm eating! It's barely worse than your meals. And sometimes better! I can take it. I grew up around this kind of stuff. _

_And your steak and kidney pie? I thought you were trying to save me! Not finish me off! _

_Geez, mom…_

_And hey. Do you ever miss Dad? I do. Sometimes. Only because I wish he'd keep you company_

_You don't have to miss me mom. I'm coming back before you know it._

_Love,_

_Your son._

Emily rolled her deeply with relief.

He sounded alright. He was still shooting barbs at her. So, yeah. He was fine. He was fine. He had to be.

Placing the letter in the wooden box, with the same utmost care. Emily drew out a fresh sheet of paper. A small smile tugging at her lips.

_Annoying brat._

_I'm a veteran you know. I've lived through one of you. From those terrible twos to the teenage years. I ought to be given a medal! I'm sure I can handle two._

_Besides. I won't be mother. I'll be the grandmother. And That makes all the difference. I just have to feed them cookies, buy them extravagant gifts, and spoil them silly. You have to be the Dad. You have to change the diapers and do the discipline. They'll get mad at you. But they'll absolutely love me._

_Of course, you have to get a wife first. And I honestly don't see that happening. No one's good enough for my baby boy._

_Don't groan. It's just the way mothers are. Go ask that new friend of yours. Matthew Williams. I'm sure he has a doting mother. And I'm sure he was an absolute angel unlike you, little devil. You should learn a thing or two from that boy. I haven't met him and I already like him. He sounds like a nice, young boy._

_I'm glad you have well-meaning friends. Though how they put up with your immature behaviour I will never know. _

_As for the turkey, I have no comments. I must've bought a rotten one or something of the like. _

_Do not laugh! And I know you are! _

_It was the turkey's fault!_

_And I'll have you know, my steak and kidney pie have been known to raise the dead! So there you go!_

_You are such an impertinent child. You really must take after your father._

_But… That's not a bad all, you are such a strong boy. _

_You're good. And you're brave._

_When the time comes. You will make a wonderful father._

_Love,_

_Your Mother_

* * *

Christmas was the time of giving. A time of peace. Filled with love, and warmth, and gingerbread cookies freshly baked from the oven.

Emily was quickly growing disillusioned from such fanciful ideas. And she wasn't the only one. The Vargas twins just stopped by, carolling apparently. Except Lovino was irritable, short of throwing a tantrum, and Feliciano was nervous, short of having a breakdown. And Emily could certainly guess why.

Their caretaker, Roderich Edelstein was a well-renowned conductor. Having performed in Carnegie Hall and other places of high esteem. He had no tolerance for dissonance. And Emily would bet her great-great grandfather's pirate hat, that the man had "coached" the twins to sing perfectly. And by coach, she meant he had drilled the notes into their pretty, little heads with enough vigour and tenacity to put an army general to shame.

Honestly. And Alfred was the one to enlist?

Well, she supposed it paid off. The Vargas twins sang like angels. And she clapped politely, offering the two her freshly baked fruitcake.

The twins had ran away screaming. Crossing the street in record time before storming into their house. The door slamming shut.

"Hmm… I had no idea their voices could reach that high a pitch. This bears looking into." Roderich had commented.

Emily twitched.

It was only the beginning of her "holiday horror". The chicken was roasted to a blackened crisp. Well, blacker than previous years at least. Upon recovering the traditional Christmas decorations, Emily had fallen down the stairs. Shattering several expensive tree ornaments. The festive lights refused to work. Often resulting in the short circuit of her entire household.

But worse yet…

This year. Emily was all alone. All by herself.

Christmas Eve came. And it went.

Emily had initially believed Christmas Day would pass in a similar fashion. In cold, cold solitude, watching as the fragile flakes of snow, floated from the heavens above.

She never expected Gilbert. Of all people. To trudge up her walkway. Knocking, pounding on her front door.

She peered cautiously at him, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

But Gilbert merely smiled. A thick, brown envelope in his hands.

Emily's breath caught in her throat.

"B-But isn't it your day off?"

"I'm a mailman. It's what I do." He laughed.

Emily gently accepted his proffered package. Hot tears clouding her vision. But smiling. Oh yes. Smiling.

"Th-Thank you." She stuttered. "W-Would you like to come in?"

Gilbert shook his head. Grinning. "How bout I leave you to read? And you can make it up to me later!"

Emily laughed. Wiping the corner of her eyes. "It's a done deal."

"Merry Christmas, Ms. Kirkland-Jones."

"I do believe this is the best present I've ever gotten."

* * *

_I was up on a hill. I was out there all alone. When the shots all rang out. And bombs were exploding. And that's when I saw him. He came back for me. And though he was captured, a man set me free. _

_That man was your son._

_He asked me to write to you. I told him I would. Oh, I swore._

_You have raised a fine boy. Heroic and noble. If a bit precocious._

_I owe him my life. And for that, you. And your enitre family. Have my deepest gratitude._

_Signed,_

_Matthew Williams_

Emily sobbed. Unable to withold the tears pouring from her very soul.

Her boy. Her baby boy. _Alfred._

"Stupid child. Stupid child." She cried. Heaving deep, heavy breaths. Her entire frame trembling. "Why must you… Why must you always be the hero? Stupid child. What happens to me…? What happens to me if you—if you—!"

But Emily knew. Alfred was Alfred. Her precious baby boy. Because he was foolish. Never had a plan. And prone to noble, heroic acts.

That was her dearest son.

And honestly.

She couldn't be prouder.

Taking out a fresh seat of paper, Emily cried as she wrote. And wrote as she cried. The first, a thank you letter. To sweet Matthew.

The second…

_You're good. And you're brave._

_When the time comes. You will be wonderful father._

_Make it home. Make it safe._

_Love,_

_Your Mother_

* * *

Day bled into weeks. Weeks into months. And still Gilbert received no word.

But he received plenty from her. From Ms. Kirkland-Jones.

Every single day. He would find her waiting for him. For the mail. Her eyes, her expression, her very being.

Hoping. Hoping. Hoping.

And it broke his heart to shake his head. As he did. Every single day.

But she was cut from a different cloth, and each and every day, she would hand him a new letter. Always the same, thick, brown envelope, never ceasing in her treasured belief.

That somewhere. Somehow. Her son was still alive.

Fighting. Fighting. Fighting.

* * *

Two years has passed.

Two years of agonizing wait.

Two years of chilling solitude.

Two years of worry. Of fear. Of haunting nightmares that clutched her very core.

Two years. Two years.

It was autumn. The ground littered with vibrant leaves. The sky painted a golden-pink, twilight setting in.

And in this quiet suburban neighborhood, untouched by the hands of time...

A car quietly drove in. A military car. Sleek, black. Polished.

Naturally, as such was an uncommon occurrence, the curious denizens gathered. Watching as the car parked in front of a non-descript house, painted a dull, peeling white.

Emily peered out.

An older woman. Turning forty-one. Time caught up.

Fine lines decorating her taut expression, gray hairs highlgihting her locks.

Emily peered inquisitvely at the parked car. Rightly concerned for the car was parked in front of her house.

There was a moment of silence. In which the very fabric of time and space halted. If only for this one, one moment.

Then the door swung open. A decorated captain casually stepping out.

Emily fell to her knees.

Memories flashed through her eyes. The scenes of a foreign movie that could not be her life.

_A beautiful, baby boy. Newly born. Fast asleep in her arms. It was a life she was responsible of. An existence she created. And god! Good god._

_The baby boy was older now. He was running across the lawn on his stubby legs. Squealing and laughing. Chasing a round, red ball. _

_The toddler, now a teenager. Rebellious and confident. He was taller than her now. Ready to take on the entire world._

_And finally. The teenager grew up. Into a fine, young man. With priorities and goals. Things to do, places to see. Flying from her nest._

And he stood right there. Where the captain stood.

Unable to control herself, Emily started sobbing.

_AlfredAlfredAlfredAlfred_

"I told you I'd tease you endlessly if I saw you crying."

It was all the warning she ever got. Before her son. Her dearest, dearest son. Her precious baby boy.

Embraced her. Joy radiating from every fiber of his being.

And Emily cried harder.

_Bring him home._


End file.
